The Tower: A Novel

by Uwe Tellkamp

  Transport. ‘Hoffmann, Kretzschmar, I warn you that I must use my gun if you resist.’ Nip tapped the pistol on his belt. ‘Get in.’ A converted, military-green Barkas van, folding seats, bars between the driver and loading space.

  Examining judge. ‘The examining judge is waiting for you.’ They didn’t go across the bridge, across the courtyard with the monument and the guard in front of it; they approached Coal Island from the restricted area. A civilian official waved the van through with a friendly gesture after she had taken down their personal details and passed them on over a black telephone.

  ‘Prisoners’ escort.’ A first lieutenant took over. The barrier opened at the checkpoint. Coal dust from the pithead frames drifted through the mild spring air. A large yard, concrete slabs, pansies in tractor tyres painted white, pansies had come into bloom, as the lieutenant pointed out to Nip, whom he addressed by his first name. ‘So what have you brought for us today?’

  ‘Two two-twenties.’

  ‘Problems?’ The lieutenant tapped the handcuffs he had on his belt.

  ‘Nah. Kretzschmar here’ – he prodded Pancake, who was trotting along apathetically, head bowed, in front of Christian, in the ribs – ‘has already got quite a record. A big mouth but nothing behind it. A good driver, though, pity to lose him.’

  ‘Aha,’ the lieutenant said as the shrill whistle of Black Mathilda was heard. The yard was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. There was a blossom on one of the concrete slabs. Christian bent down and picked it up: from the apple trees on the slope across the Elbe, from the Italian-looking gardens. He was punched and doubled up, gasping for air. ‘Do that again and there’ll be trouble,’ the lieutenant said. Corridors like catacombs. Christian smelt the stale air – not a window anywhere. The echoing tramp of boots. The clink of metal, harsh orders, sticks hitting bars rhythmically, challenges shouted out across distances – signals? – regularly, as if separate transports were trying to avoid each other. The corridors had been painted black on the lower half, yellow above. There were buttons on the walls at regular intervals. The ceiling was cross-vaulted, bare bulbs hung down from the intersections of the ribs.

  ‘Halt!’ A steel door with a number.

  ‘The comrade major has gone for lunch,’ the secretary said.

  ‘Then you two will take your nourishment as well,’ the lieutenant told Christian and Pancake. ‘Open ration bags!’ They had been given the ration bags before setting off on the transport, the guard had whispered to them, ‘Eat the lot, the examining magistrate can take a long time.’

  While they were still eating (standing up) a major came out of the door. The army judge, not the examining magistrate.

  ‘Atten-shun!’ the lieutenant roared. Christian and Pancake didn’t know what to do with their food as they tried to stand to attention. The judge took it good-humouredly. He read out their names. After that they were called the accused. ‘The accused are suspected of having committed offences according to section two hundred and twenty of the Criminal Code.’ He read out the relevant section. ‘After detailed examination of the facts in the case the investigating officers recommended the accused be taken into custody on the grounds that they might attempt to abscond.’

  That made Christian laugh: attempting to abscond. He was wearing the uniform of the National People’s Army. Well, yes, if he could fly. Then he found he was flying, saw a rubber truncheon raised.

  ‘Comrade First Lieutenant, I must ask you to treat the prisoners according to regulations.’

  The examining magistrate strolled back from lunch chatting with two colleagues about gardening, the problems of growing pumpkins. Not looking at anyone, he indicated with a nod that they should go into the room. Christian had to stand behind a wooden barrier with a view of greying curtains, a standard government-issue desk, filing cabinets. Instead of the smiling portrait of the Comrade First Secretary the grim one of the Chairman of the Ministerial Council was hanging on the wall above the examining magistrate’s chair with, beside it, a certificate for an ‘Exemplary Combat Collective in Socialist Competition’. There was a seedling rubber tree on the window ledge with a little copper watering can beside it. The examining magistrate listened calmly to Christian’s stammering Sorry, won’t happen again, I didn’t say it like that, I didn’t mean it like that.

  ‘You have the right of appeal. You will be remanded in custody while further investigations are carried out.’

  Trial judge advocate. Stairs, corridors, bare light bulbs. This part of Coal Island seemed not to be linked to the administrative offices unless by secret tunnels. Christian had already been in Central Registration with the counters with the letters of the alphabet above them, and then in the rotunda with the statues before, on the day he’d handed in his identity card and received his military service identity card in return, that grey document with the pease-pudding-yellow pages – these corridors, however, along which the lieutenant had led them unerringly, seemed to be from a previous age. On the surface, in the daylight, the blocks made of prefabricated slabs hadn’t suggested this labyrinth, it must branch off deep into the mine and sometimes, when the lieutenant ordered them to stop after a challenge from a guard, Christian thought he could hear the clunk of hammers and the sound of distant explosions. And then something was ticking, regularly, it sounded like a metronome set at slow, the walls of the basement corridors seemed to bring it from afar. Or were they cellars? He’d lost his sense of direction some time ago. The corridors had no windows. Then they went even deeper, down a spiral staircase that made Christian dizzy; now and then there was a barred door at which the lieutenant ordered them to halt and shortly afterwards a guard would appear. The guards wore dark-blue uniforms that Christian had never seen before. He thought, the Navy? what’s the Navy doing here? They reached a vault that must have been very extensive, the light from the bulbs didn’t illuminate the whole of it. There was another major sitting at a desk not far from the entrance, he seemed to have the same seniority as the other two majors: promotion-according-to-years-of-service, sitting-your-way-up-the-ladder, as per regulations. As per regulations, Christian thought. Things are clearly as-per-regulations here. The lieutenant reported to him. The major nodded, put a sheet of paper in the black Erika typewriter. Nodding to Christian, he pointed to a spring folder in front of him on the desk. ‘I have studied the documents. I disapprove of your behaviour. I have to institute preliminary hearings against you.’ He nodded to the lieutenant and Nip, who took Pancake into a room by the bottom of the stairs. The major read out a statement. ‘You are supposed to have said that. Now we all know what witnesses are sometimes like, so my lad, what was it really like. After all, we want to get at the truth.’

  The major typed out Christian’s answers as he spoke, slowly, with two fingers. To correct mistakes he used some white paste he smeared over the mistyped letters with a little brush. ‘Right then, to begin at the beginning, my lad, we have this sentence: “You bastard, you damn’ bastard!” Is that what you said?’

  ‘I said, “You bastard, you lousy bastard”, Comrade Major.’

  ‘– l o u s y bastard,’ the major typed. ‘It has to be correct. Right, then, that was point one. Point two: “You’ve killed him. It’s your fault, there were five seconds too few.” ’

  ‘I can’t remember exactly, Comrade Major.’

  ‘Come on, try. It’s important.’

  ‘I didn’t really mean it … It just slipped out, the situation, Comrade Major …’

  ‘Now you don’t need to start crying. I can understand. We were all young once. And we’re not without our feelings, are we? But – the class standpoint, young man, we’ve always been right about that. That’s the difference. We’ve occasionally had one too many, we’ve liberated eggs from a farmer, we’ve chased women. That’s being young! Did you say that in those words, Hoffmann? Come on, calm down. I want to get home today and you’re not the only one I’ve got to deal with.’

  ‘I think … I think … I didn’t mean it
like that.’

  ‘I’m not interested in what you think or don’t think, I want to get at the truth, the correct wording of your statements.’

  ‘I said it in those words.’

  ‘There, you see. You can do it. We’ll get this done, we’ll go through it step by step, I’ll read each sentence out to you and you’ll think about it carefully. At least you’re cooperating. Right. That was point two. Point three: “Something like that’s only possible in this shitty state.” ’

  Remanded in custody. The major had one of the doors unlocked. Christian was handcuffed and taken down long corridors. Aluminium doors at regular intervals at which the lieutenant reported: press the button, a buzz, little loudspeakers out of which voices sounding like angry cranes croaked. Christian felt nothing, not even afraid. Of course this couldn’t be a dream, for that the lieutenant was too grumpy. Sometimes they encountered other delinquents. Always one officer to one prisoner – the prisoners in handcuffs. The lieutenant ordered him to wait outside a door with the state symbol painted on it. Once more report arrival. Wait. A buzz as the door was unlocked. This was the prison. To the rhythm of their steps Christian thought: prison, prison, it’s a mistake. He was led down a wide corridor. Dark-blue uniforms, men in grey-green clothes. Civilian clothes, for many the trouser legs were too short; the clothes had been mended, fluorescent strips had been sewn onto the trouser legs and sleeves in the form of large question marks. He had to stand against the wall, hands raised, to be searched.

  ‘Trousers down. Legs wide apart.’ The man in uniform shone a light up his arse. Christian saw Pancake further ahead, a tied-up blanket on the floor in front of him.

  ‘Turn round. Pull back foreskin. – Shut your trap!’ The rage flaring up in the face of the man in the blue uniform, his raised hand: We don’t hang about here, sonny. The echoing voices. A windowless vault, Christian could make out: steel staircases in the middle, either side of them gratings in the ceiling, on them, on top of each other, the outlines of boots walking slowly.

  ‘To Effects!’ That was a boxroom with clothes. A woman behind a wooden barrier said, ‘Possessions here.’ Yes, he actually had possessions. Someone had carved their initials in the wood of the barrier, which was worn smooth and round like a tiller. Possessions: watch, handkerchief, comb, military identity card, purse, the photo of the hoopoe on the Danube delta, Reina’s letter, washing things, his uniform. The woman checked them, indicated what Christian was allowed to keep, recorded the rest in a list that she countersigned with initials. Christian was given a bundle of blankets and an often-repaired uniform with fluorescent stripes, the trousers were too short. Then he was taken to a cell. Behind him the key rattled in the lock, three times, four times, very loudly, a special lock, a special key. Christian stood in the cell and realized he wasn’t alone. First he had to adjust to the dim light. He said, ‘Hello.’

  The Tram. Christian saw: two benches opposite each other along the walls, on them around twenty men scrutinizing him, some with calm, some with hostile looks.

  ‘Informer,’ one said.

  ‘Nah. It’s the first time he’s been sent up, you can see that right away. Let’s see your mitts.’

  Christian held out his hands.

  ‘Nah. He’s never worked. A student.’

  ‘University entrance,’ Christian muttered.

  ‘No use to you here. D’you know where you are now? In the tram and it’s heading for the slammer. The slammer’s better. In your case I’d put my money on shit in the forces.’ The detainee pointed to Christian’s uniform. ‘Number?’ Christian didn’t understand.

  ‘What section?’

  ‘Two hundred and twenty.’

  ‘Oh yes, public disparagement. A tip: when you’re in the glasshouse, read the laws. You’re allowed to.’

  ‘Pretty boy,’ one said.

  ‘Yeh. Almost like a girl.’

  ‘On the nail.’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘I get a cigarette for that tip,’ the man who’d asked him what he was accused of said.

  ‘Haven’t got any.’

  ‘Y’ll have to buy some. You owe me one cigarette. We’ll see each other again, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Someone let some air in.’

  A metre-long rod raised the window. Bars outside cut the light into seven strips. The door was flung open, the door was slammed shut. New detainees arrived, others were called out. Always the same words: At the double. Or: Move your arse! Or: Get your finger out! The key was like a hammer being driven into the lock. At the sound the inhabitants of the cells started, even the older detainees with brutality written all over their faces. Then the key pushed some soft metal resistance aside, three or four times, each time sounding like the bolt of a machine gun being engaged. Christian, squeezed into the farthest corner of the room, observed the others without moving, not even daring to give way to the itch that was tormenting him all over his body, like the precursor to an allergic attack. He stood motionless and when he breathed out he did it when there was movement in the room, also switching the leg he was standing on at the same time. After a long time (his watch had remained at Effects) he was taken out of the cell. Up the stairs in the middle of the vault.

  At Registry. ‘At the double, at the double!’ Four floors up; he was told to wait at a wooden barrier worn smooth. Other detainees arrived. Out in the middle of the neighbouring room was a piano stool with a red-leather seat that could be screwed higher or lower.

  ‘Sit down.’ The photographer busied himself, adjusted floodlights, took photos of Christian from the right, left and in front.

  ‘Hold out your hands.’ The guard took Christian’s fingerprints, he gave his thumb a light tap with his fist. There was hardly any ink left on the pad.

  Christian didn’t go back to the tram. The guard unlocked one of the grey iron doors on the fifth floor. The cell number had been sprayed on with black paint using a stencil.

  ‘Detainee Hoffmann, you’re to stand one metre away from the guard when the door is being opened and shut!’ the man in the blue uniform bawled. He pushed Christian into the room. Two others were in there already, they shot to their feet, thumbs on trouser seams; the older one said, ‘Custody Room five-zero-eight, two detainees present, nothing to report.’

  Christian was given his bundle of blankets, a sheet of paper and a pencil. He was to write his CV. Mother, father, when did I join the Young Pioneers, the Thälmann Pioneers, when did I become a member of the Free German Youth. Hobbies, school career, job preferences.

  The Custody Room. In the cell there were three bunks, two hanging cupboards, a washbasin, a mirror, a table folded down, beside it a lavatory bowl with a pipe and a chain made of white plastic links, a black plastic handle at the bottom.

  ‘The bed at the back’s yours, lad. I’m Kurt and this is – oh, tell him your name yourself.’

  ‘Korbinian Krause,’ the younger man said.

  ‘Christian Hoffmann.’

  ‘Your number? By the way, you can call me Kurtchen.’

  ‘Two-twenty.’

  ‘Him over there’ – the older man nodded at the younger one – ‘is in here for two-thirteen. IE – illegal emigration. And me – well, this and that.’

  ‘Kurtchen’s a murderer,’ the younger man with the odd name of Korbinian muttered.

  ‘Now let’s not exaggerate. I did kill someone, true. But that was in anger, that’s something different. When you’re angry, you don’t know what you’re doing. First everything goes red, then black, y’know.’

  ‘Because you haven’t found the way to God, because you shut your ear to Him, brother.’

  The older man grinned, jerked his thumb at Korbinian, who didn’t look as if he’d been joking. ‘That’s his thing, y’know. He’s a preacher, y’see.’

  ‘I studied theology but I’m not a preacher. Preacher’s what the Methodists and Baptists call it; with us it’s pastor or minister. You haven’t made confession yet, Kurtchen.’

  Kurtchen
nodded, grinned. ‘I do it as a favour to him, y’know. Keeps him quiet. And sometimes – yeh, it really does help. Get everything off your chest.’

  ‘The one he killed was his own brother. Kurtchen was a cabinetmaker, Arnochen was a cabinetmaker. Their workshops were opposite each other, they lived a cat-and-dog life. And one day they went for each other with axes. Arnochen’s axe went in Kurtchen’s sideboard, Kurtchen’s in Arnochen’s noddle.’

  ‘Nah. It went in his neck. Thou shalt not bear false witness, or whatever they say. – But you’ – he turned to Christian – ‘where’re you from? What did you do?’

  ‘Dresden … senior high,’ Christian stammered.

  ‘Senior high … that’s good. You’ll be educated, imagination …’

  ‘Kurtchen needs someone to help him masturbate,’ Korbinian said.

  ‘Don’t condemn me!’ Kurtchen wagged his finger. ‘I’ve not had a woman for ages and I’m a man with strong physical urges. An’ if you think up something good, it’s a relief for me an’ y’get three tubes for it. But it has to be really horny, with lots of diff’rent bits, know what I mean? Best of all with film stars, then I know who you’re talking about.’

  Waiting. The words had vanished, they only came back slowly, like fish letting themselves sink back down lethargically after a net had lifted them up into deadly brightness and a hand found them too light. Kurtchen, whom Christian now also called by that name, found the waiting difficult. He was impatient for his trial so that he would finally get to the proper jail, where things were better (he confirmed the opinion of the man in the tram whom Christian owed a cigarette) than on remand. Better because clearer. A clearer situation. The POs (that was what the guards were called, it was the abbreviation of Prison Officer) had no doubts or scruples. They didn’t have any here, either, as Kurtchen said, but there, in the proper jail, everything was clear – and since everything was clear and you had proper time as well, it wasn’t just waiting for something else any more, the POs could behave as regulations required. Even the trusty, who brought their meals and the book cart once a week, did so. The detainees were allowed to read. Christian borrowed the autobiography of the Comrade General Secretary. The familiar face looked up at him from the photos, familiar from the sky-blue pictures in classrooms, government offices, placards at the First of May processions and celebrations for the anniversary of the Republic. The familiar face had once been that of a child, in a house in the Saarland, oppressive conditions, large families, child mortality, hunger, having to earn money when young, father old before his time, mother a woman who seemed caring but had a frozen smile. Conditions in the factories. The Communist Youth Organization. Fanfares, shawms. The war, post-war inflation. Little Man, What Now? ’33. Underground, arrested, Gestapo, interrogations, prison. Christian had always hated these stories (they were repeated, with minor variations, in the biographies of the Leading Representatives of the Republic); he didn’t want to know about them. Had always switched off the war films on Thursdays, GDR TV Channel 2; Katyusha rocket launchers with subtitles, heroes on the quietly flowing Don, overblown emotionalism hardly different from that of the Nazis. He thought of Anne. ‘Good night,’ she’d said when he was a child far down, it seemed to him, in the abyss of time. He recalled things said, he tried to make Anne say those things – then the words, then Anne would disappear. Exhortations, touches, surreptitious. When she’d touched him and Robert it had always been surreptitiously, as if the tenderness didn’t become her. Now and then a present put out unobtrusively, something ‘they needed’, clothes from Exquisit, a can of pineapples from Delikat. A book he’d mentioned in passing that she’d managed to get hold of.